


Unicorne

by the_original_n_chan



Series: Unicorne [1]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Setting, Intersex Character, Jean Is a Magical Creature, M/M, RIDICULOUS POINTLESS FANFIC FINEST KIND, Shapeshifting, Soul Bond, Unicorns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-19
Updated: 2014-07-16
Packaged: 2018-02-05 06:50:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1809256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_original_n_chan/pseuds/the_original_n_chan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean has a secret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All rights reserved to the original creators. No copyright infringement is intended.

 

 

> “Unicorn. Old French, _unicorne_. Latin, _unicornis_. Literally, one-horned: _unus_ , one, and _cornu_ , a horn. A fabulous animal resembling a horse with one horn. Visible only to those who search and trust, and generally mistaken for a white mare. Unicorn.”  
>  — _The Last Unicorn_  
> 

 

Eren is always calling Jean a horse. This is...not exactly accurate.

Not that Jean would ever tell him as much. Because honestly, even for a world overrun by giant, almost indestructible, people-eating monsters, Jean’s true nature is pretty weird. And _stupid_. Because what good is it, really? Being different from everyone else inside the walls? Having to hide himself so deep in the semblance of humanity that sometimes he almost forgets what he is—almost, and then he remembers, or is reminded, and it _hurts_ , this otherness that is always with him, this secret self that he can never share with anyone?

Being alone, always alone, on the streets of Trost, in the trainee camp, _everywhere?_

Because his own parents don’t know, don’t see him for what he really is, and he has no idea how his being born even worked, since it’s not exactly something he can ask them about, not when their minds refuse even to acknowledge him when he stands before them in his true form. So even if he did make some attempt to set Eren straight, Eren would never in a million years believe it. It would only give him more to make jokes about, the crazy, suicidal prick. So there is absolutely no point, even if the constant refrain of “horseface” annoys Jean to no end.

He’d kind of...when he’d first seen Mikasa, her beauty, her cool stillness, a strange and unknown feeling had twinged in him, and he’d almost hoped that if he reached out something in her would answer, would _see_. But all she ever sees is Eren, and Armin, and the targets of her blades. He lost hope a long time ago, although stubborn habit keeps him clinging to the idea, long past the point where his innermost heart has already let it go.

He hates the trainee camp, he hates fighting and the very idea of fighting, but he hates his hometown too, even more, the noise, the dirt, the smells, the quiet desperation that’s been growing during the last five difficult years, and the one best way out, he figures, is to make it to the interior, where everything is quiet and clean and rich and peaceful, and where maybe he can finally stop feeling so...so _violated_ all the time. So exposed to all the ugliness of this human world.

(And yes, maybe it _is_ just a tiny bit cool that the symbol of the Military Police is what it is. It makes him feel like maybe this could be destiny, sort of, lets him imagine that this might be a place where he can truly belong. Even if, in the end, he’s still going to be a soldier.)

All he has to do is make it into the top ten. No problem. He’s not the smartest, or the strongest (well, if he let himself shift, then maybe), and he still has an aversion to violence that he has to struggle to overcome, but he also has a grace that none of the others can match (except Mikasa, but nobody can match her in anything), and when he flies, borne up by his maneuver gear, he almost feels...free. So it’s done, finally, he’s in, just the formalities left and then he’ll be on his way to the Military Police, and if it irritates him that Eren, of all people, ranked ahead of him, well, in the end who cares? It doesn’t affect his future in the least. And he’ll never have to see Eren again anyway.

And Marco will be going with him. He... _likes_ Marco. Really likes him. A lot. He feels comfortable with him, as with no one else. There’s a gentleness, a kindness to Marco that sometimes, when he feels most alone, most vulnerable, makes something quiver deep within him, a nameless longing so pure and nakedly sharp that it nearly makes him want to cry. Makes him wonder if, maybe, just maybe, he could say.... 

But he’s so used to hiding by now. And if it turns out that Marco is just like all the rest—

He doesn’t want to know. He wants to be friends with Marco, with no shadow of disappointment on that friendship; he wants the two of them to go to Sina together; he wants to see Marco fulfill his dreams, and maybe find a little peace for himself. And that’s that.

But then the worst happens. The Titans break into Trost. And it is hell, it is nothing but hell, it is blood and death and horror, it is killing and dying, and he will never be clean of the stains. _Never._ And even when the danger is over, when Eren’s improbable power is revealed and the broken gate has been blocked up, it just goes on. Because they make him...with the bodies...he knows that he _must_ , that the dead will bring disease and even more people will die, but to touch the corpses, the _pieces_ of corpses, to throw them onto the carts and see them hauled away...he keeps having to stop, to lean against a wall and close his eyes, so that he doesn’t faint. He is ill and terrified and heartsick, and ever since the confusion of the last defense, he hasn’t been able to find Marco anywhere.

And then...he finds Marco.

 _What happened?_ he begs desperately, but no one knows. No one knows how Marco died. How he was caught and killed and discarded half eaten, leaving just a torn, blood-soaked remnant, not even an entire body.

He must have died alone.

And Jean can’t, he can’t bear it, he feels himself breaking at last, but at the same time an unexpected, startling strength is rising in him, pure and angry and indomitable even in spite of his crushing grief. He feels real—shocked real—in a way he hasn’t in years. The ground is firm, unyielding beneath his feet, the blue sky arches endless and clean above the battered buildings, and his hand trembles only a little as he pulls off and drops the useless gauze mask.

It’s been a long time, but it’s easy. He shakes himself, settles into his skin. Around him, carts clatter over the cobblestones, voices call and people stumble about, but he and Marco exist in an oasis of stillness. He gazes down at his friend’s body, broken bone, savaged flesh, a rictus grimace, one dulled, sunken eye.

 _Can he?_ he wonders uneasily. He’s read the myths, but stories lie, and the damage is...so much. But something inside him, something ageless and wild and wiser than a fifteen-year-old boy from Trost, knows the truth.

Jean bends his knee, bows his head, and places the tip of his horn above the silent heart.

It takes time, he supposes, but time seems oddly meaningless. All that matters is the steady flow of light that runs between them. That light sings out of him and into Marco, knits up the flesh, condenses into a chest, an arm, a face—familiar, peaceful, as if Marco is only sleeping now. _Whole._ Even the freckles are there. The last wounds close (there’s nothing he can do about Marco’s clothing, but who cares), and beneath his horn Marco’s heart leaps, stutters, finds and then settles into a strong, even rhythm. As Jean rises, lifting his head, Marco begins to stir, drawing in a slow, deep breath.

Marco’s eyes flutter open, dream-hazed, bewildered. His gaze drifts until it catches on Jean—and then stops. Those dark eyes focus, widen, and Jean can see his reflection in their depths, shining white as a winter sun. Trembling a little, Marco hitches himself up to sit against the wall, his mouth fallen open in shock, and that longing, that need, that _ache_ , crests to a new pitch, keener than ever, as piercing as the sweetest heartbreak, as a breathless, yearning hope.

Carefully, almost reverently, Marco reaches out to touch his mane, then cups a gentle hand against his face.

“...Jean?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is basically going to be the canon setting and storyline, except that Jean is a unicorn. And Marco lives. And Jean and his magical unicorn powers kind of take over center stage, because I am terrible and shameless. (You know how Jean OP-bombs the second OVA? Like that, but with less smirking.)
> 
> I will totally not blame you if you stop at the end of this chapter, because this chapter is reasonably restrained and semi-decent, and it's pretty much all downhill from here.
> 
> Mature rating will kick in around chapter 4. You're safe until then.
> 
>  
> 
> *UNICORNE BECAUSE FRENCH OKAY.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which resurrecting Marco complicates Jean's life.

In hindsight, it’s the worst mistake ever to report back to the woman overseeing their section of the cleanup. Jean had figured they had to, because he’d identified Marco as dead, and it would be a tragedy if that news got to Marco’s family. But the woman remembers Marco, remembers seeing him as a corpse, and immediately loses her mind. Because the news is out about Eren Yeager, and humans who can turn into Titans (or is it the other way around? no one is sure), and regenerating limbs, and all the rest, and in seconds Jean and Marco are surrounded by a half-circle of near-hysterical Garrison soldiers, bristling with blades. Jean plants himself in front of Marco, who’s cowering back against a wall, looking terrified. He’s terrified too, but just as much he’s angry, enraged, because this is his Marco, _his_ , and he is _not_ losing him again, especially not for such a stupid, asinine reason. In the wherever his true form goes when he’s not in it, his crest rises, his nostrils flare, he paws at the ground; but all the soldiers see is the human, fists clenched, eyes wild, teeth bared in fear and threat.

“I was wrong, okay, I thought that was him, but it wasn’t, it was just someone who looked like him—”

“—you’re lying, I saw his face, it’s the _same_ face—”

“—how could you even tell for sure—all the blood—and it was only even _half_ a face—”

“—what?” Marco is whispering behind him, horrified, “— _what?_ ”

And then _traitor!_ , and _collaborator!_ , people are shouting at him, screaming, panicking, and probably the only thing that saves their lives right then is that a squad of Military Police appears on the scene, ties them up, hauls them off, and dumps them in a dungeon somewhere well behind Wall Sina, each chained in his own cell, alone. The walls between them are solid, but through the barred gates Jean can hear Marco’s breath sobbing that night, can hear the rattle of metal links each time he moves, and the sounds cut into him like broken glass.

The next day or however long is mostly a blur, but by the end of it, Jean knows from overhearing the guards’ conversations just how much trouble they’re actually in. Because the Survey Corps has won Eren away from the Military Police, and the MPs are certainly not about to give up _this_ prize—if anyone in authority even realizes that they’re there, or cares. The original plan had been to dissect Eren, and now that he’s out of reach...it’s going to be Marco. Who is not a Titan, who will not survive this, and _nobody_ will listen, no matter how desperately Marco pleads, begs, breaks down in tears, no matter how many times Jean shouts at them to just _believe_ him.

When Jean snaps out of his fugue of horror to the realization that the guards have briefly left their hallway, he knows this is the only chance they’ll get.

It’s so hard. The stone, the iron, the stifling air, the decades of pain, hopelessness, and misery all crushing inward on him—but he has to, and he does. He groans, shuddering, bends his head at last to touch his horn to one of the cuffs about his forelegs, then the other, and they chime like tiny bells as they fall away. That helps. The door is much easier—a _shing_ like a sword being drawn, and he is pushing it open, slipping out into the hall. 

“Jean?” Marco stares as he appears outside the cell, trying to walk softly, silently, but quickly. He undoes the lock, steps inside to deal with the cuffs, and Marco gasps, rubs at his wrists as the metal falls away. “Jean, you—”

_Can you get on my back?_ Jean asks, and Marco wastes barely a moment of shock before he nods, slides hastily off the bed. He mounts awkwardly, saddleless and trying to be careful of Jean’s ribs, and it is so, _so_ weird—nobody else could do this, Jean realizes, skin shivering as Marco settles, he couldn’t bear it, but this is Marco, this is to save Marco’s life, and that makes it all right. Acceptable. _Hold on_ , he says, and as Marco tangles his fingers in Jean’s mane, he abandons all attempt at quiet, hurtling into the hallway, around the corner, and up the stairs in a clattering rush. 

The guard at the top of the steps is absolutely not expecting to be run down by a large, semi-equine creature. There’s a hell-for-leather gallop through vaguely remembered, confusing corridors before Jean finally finds a door that leads to the outside. And then they’re bolting across a courtyard toward a quickly closing gate as shouts of alarm ring out all around them, but this is Sina, and this compound is made to keep in human prisoners and keep out ambitious thieves and troublemakers. Not to defend against Titans. Not to contain Jean. He leaps, touches lightly on the roof of a guard post and bounds high, over the wall—thinks for a heart-stopping instant that he’ll lose Marco as they land hard, but Marco clamps his legs tight, flings a desperate arm around Jean’s neck, and somehow manages not to fall off. And then they’re running, running—Jean has never in his life run like this, all out, almost flying, scarcely seeming to touch the ground, and his whole being thrills to it, this exultant surge of freedom, so much so that he forgets all fear. He’s long out of range of the soldiers’ rifles—no horse can match his speed—no message can beat them to the Sina gate—they’ll be through it before dawn, racing for their only hope of safety, the one place that might protect Marco, give him a chance, however slight, at life.

The Survey Corps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter; sorry! I'll try to post the next one soon. (Most of the chapters are going to be substantially longer than this.)
> 
> Apropos of current manga events, it occurred to me writing this chapter that a thing that would really (further) ruin the Survey Corps's day is if the other side secretly has some kind of distant-communication technology, like a telegraph or something. Because in a world where messages are typically carried by flares or horse-borne messengers, that would be an insane advantage.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jean has a lot of explaining to do.

It takes them forever to find the old, isolated castle that the Survey Corps is currently using as its headquarters. Jean is exhausted and stumbling by the time they reach it; Marco’s legs shake when he dismounts just inside the gate, trembling so that he can barely stand. Jean has to nudge him when one of the guards, a slightly older woman, asks him his business. “I have to talk to...to whoever’s in charge here. Tell them...it’s Marco Bott. From the 104th trainee class.”

_Stable_ , Jean reminds him as the guard sends a runner to the main keep and then turns to regard Marco with keen curiosity, and Marco stammeringly asks if he can put up his “horse.” “He...doesn’t like other people to handle him,” Marco says, trying for a winning smile, but he doesn’t quite manage to hide his nervousness, and Jean can tell from the woman’s frown that she’s adding up the oddities. The MPs at least gave them wash water and fresh clothes, so Marco isn’t bloodstained and half shirtless, but he’s a supposed soldier who’s not in uniform, who’s arriving with no notice or documentation, riding a horse with no saddle or bridle. This is not suspicious _at all_.

But she waves him toward the stable, and Jean lets himself be put into a stall for the moment. And as Marco steps back outside, he’s descended upon by a small, excited horde that turns out to be some of their former classmates: Reiner and Bertolt—Jean doesn’t see Annie—Connie and Sasha, Mikasa and Armin _without_ Eren, and he wonders if Eren has been locked up somewhere.

He wonders if this has been yet another terrible mistake.

At least it’s enough of a distraction that he’s able to hunker down below the stall partition and shift himself back. He slips out of the stable again just as Connie is enthusiastically grilling Marco, “So where were you, what happened—hey, you missed the solicitation ceremony—”

“Connie, get off him. It’s been a hell of a few days,” Jean grumbles, tired and cranky, and the guard’s head snaps around.

“Who are _you?_ Where did you come from?” Her blades are in her hands just like that, and Jean scowls dully at them. He is so very done with all of this.

“That’s Jean. He was in our class too,” says Armin, careful, in the way that means that Armin is speculating, _thinking_ , and Jean cannot imagine what Armin is gathering from these circumstances that makes him seem so guarded; he only hopes that Armin is being cautious for _their_ sake, and not entertaining some sort of suspicions about them. The woman seems about to demand more answers from someone, anyone, when her attention shifts. She steps back. The little crowd draws apart to reveal an unexpectedly tiny dark-haired man and a taller, slightly unkempt soldier with glasses who somehow is making Jean’s mind itch just standing there. Shortstuff walks up and eyes them both as if they’ve crawled out from under a rock just to annoy him; Marco snaps off a salute, and Jean follows a beat behind.

“Erwin’s not here—” that would be Commander Erwin Smith, which means this man is high ranking or unusually rude or both, “—so you’ll be dealing with me.” Cold eyes regard them, heavy-lidded. “Marco Bott.”

Marco straightens further. “Sir!”

“Got away from those Military Police bastards, did you?” He snorts, his lip curling in scorn. “Even if most of them can’t find their own assholes with both hands, they usually remember to keep the cells locked. How’d you manage it?” Marco’s eyes flick to Jean for an involuntary instant, then dart forward again; he swallows hard, and they really should have come up with a story for their escape.

“We...we just got lucky, I guess....”

“I’ve heard the rumors.” The man’s voice is level, calm, sounds almost bored, but Marco crumbles anyway.

“I swear, sir, I’m not a Titan, I’m not—!”

“Two days dead!” Glasses interrupts cheerfully. “If that’s true at all, it’s amazing.” Voices are buzzing around them, other soldiers who’ve idled up on the scene, variations of _Titan?, dead?, what?_ , people are already looking anxious verging on afraid, and the way Marco goes paler still until his freckles stand out starkly against his skin makes Jean want to forget his aversion to bloodshed so that he can just gore them all.

“It’s not him,” Jean snaps instead, and this is beyond stupid, but he is tired and fed up and hurting to the bottom of his soul. For Marco, who deserves absolutely none of this. “It’s me. I did a thing, okay? And I can’t explain it. Just—back off Marco. It has nothing to do with him.”

“Well, you’re going to have to explain it, because we already have more than enough bullshit to deal with.” The man glares at the random onlookers, who immediately find things to be occupied with someplace else. “And you’ll be explaining it all in the dungeon,” he continues as he turns back to face them, “until we can figure out whether this really is more Titan business or you’re just a couple of shitty brats looking for attention.”

“Attention—!” Jean’s voice cracks in outrage, and their inquisitor is visibly not impressed with him at all.

“I’ll be examining you.” Glasses grins at them; the expression is not the least bit reassuring. “I’m Squad Leader Hange Zoe, by the way; this is Captain Levi.” Everyone’s heard of Levi, Humanity’s Strongest, and Jean is sinking into dread all over again because they won’t escape him so easily, he will _cut them down_ , and he seems far more likely to do that than to keep them safe.

“Both of you, start walking,” Levi says, and even in spite of his fear Jean just can’t do it, not another dungeon, another trap closing, the miasma of human despair all around him, and he starts babbling.

“I did it, I brought him back, all right? I-I don’t know how—”

“Not good enough.”

“It just _happened_.”

“People do not just _come back_ ,” Levi snarls, and Jean strangles down _Eren did_ , because Eren equals Titan and that is _not_ the comparison he wants to draw, but it doesn’t matter because as he looks into the sharp gray eyes he knows that Levi is already thinking that, they are all thinking it, what else would they think? He’s a myth, a fairy tale, and there’s no room for fantasy in a world of blood and bitter death.

“You don’t know everything.” It’s the wrong thing to say; why is he always saying the wrong things? Levi sniffs, makes as if to grab Marco by the shirt front, and Jean has shoved in between them before he can even think. Levi’s hand locks onto Jean’s shirt instead, jerks him down.

“I know that in about two seconds I’m going to fuck you up.” Any trace of boredom is gone—Levi is already dissecting Jean in his head, and probably Marco too. “ _Move_.”

“Jean—” Marco puts a hand on his shoulder. “I-It’s all right. Let’s just—” and it hurts so bad, _so bad_ , his heart is pounding, all he can think is that he can’t even do anything for Marco now, that Marco is too good for this shitty world and its shitty midget tyrants, and Jean finally and completely snaps.

“It is _not_ all right, it’s not, it hasn’t been all right since—god! Since never!” He lifts his head as high as possible, given the grip on his shirt front, and glares down his nose at Levi. “All right, fine, you’re not going to believe me, but whatever!”

“Jean—!”

“Shut up, Marco, just shut up!” Jean draws a razor-edged breath. “ _I’M A FUCKING UNICORN, OKAY?_ ”

There is the proverbial pin-drop silence. Somewhere above them a bird twitters questioningly from its nest in the decrepit wall.

Reiner snorts. Guffaws, and tries to hide it in his fist. Then gives up the futile effort and collapses onto the ground, howling with laughter. 

“ _Reiner!_ ” Bertolt hisses, horrified.

“Jean...unicorn,” Reiner manages to gasp. He is practically giggling, and Jean hates everything in the entire universe. Except Marco.

“He—Bott, I mean—came in on a white horse.” The guard looks like she’s drunk a jug of soured milk, like she’d rather fight a horde of Titans all on her own than share this information with anyone, and particularly a senior officer, and even more particularly Levi, but some moral sense of full disclosure compels her. “And this guy,” she glowers at Jean, “wasn’t with him. I don’t know where _he_ came from.”

“Is there a white horse in the stable now?” Hange asks, sounding guilelessly curious, and Levi makes a strangled, barely audible noise in the back of his throat, rather like a cat about to have a hairball.

Sasha swings easily up onto a partition wall and peers the length of the open stalls. “No horse,” she reports, then shrugs and drops back to the ground.

“You are _shitting_ me.” The look Levi aims at Hange is terrifying, and Jean isn’t sure why the other soldier is the target of Levi’s wrath and not him, but he’s not complaining at all, not a bit. “This is mental even for you, Shitty-glasses.”

“If it’s really true, you could prove it, couldn’t you?” Hange’s attention has swiveled back to Jean, and that sudden, intense focus makes his skin creep. He can’t tell if he’s being toyed with or mocked, or if this person really is sincerely crazy. Or is that crazily sincere? “Is it a transformation like Eren’s? Hey, can you show us?”

“For _fuck’s_ sake, Hange—”

With all these people watching him, with the weight of their expectations, of their reality in which he’s just Jean Kirstein, soldier from Trost, sixth in their trainee class, kind of a jerk? And on top of all that, the fact that he personally agrees wholeheartedly with Levi and this is entirely, one hundred percent ridiculous, the whole situation, Hange’s interest, even the very idea of him transforming into a mythical beast, never mind that it’s actually true. “I c-can’t,” he stammers, flushing hotly, wishing the ground would swallow him or the building would catch on fire or something. Any kind of distraction. Except maybe not Titans. “It’s not—it’s not like that—”

“Shit. _Nobody_ has time for this,” Levi mutters. And he flings Jean aside like he weighs nothing, sends him sprawling on the ground several meters away—a blade hisses from its sheath—and Jean is lunging up again, pure instinct, a wild flare of desperation that rips through everything, all his own resistances, all the clinging drag of real and not, that pours him into his other shape as he hurls himself between the sword and Marco. His head rings with the impact as Levi’s blade glances off his horn, but even so he realizes the blow was pulled even before he moved: threat only, not the lethal strike it looked like. He plants himself in front of Marco anyway, blowing hard, sides heaving, and lowers his head, eyes locked on Levi.

The man has already leaped back, well out of reach; he stares at Jean, not in anger now—something more like puzzlement, although still tensely guarded and watchful. “I...don’t know how you blocked that,” he murmurs. Jean paws, then braces himself and tries to look fierce, dangerous, though his legs tremble and all he wants to do is run, hide, cry.

Their standoff is lasts barely a moment; it’s broken by a choking sputter. “W-Why is there a horse suddenly?” Connie cries, and Levi turns and flat out stares at him, incredulous.

“What—”

“Everyone, I just heard that Marco’s here—oh!” Jean glances toward that interrupting voice to see that Krista has come up behind the others, Ymir as usual slouching along in her wake, kicking at the ground, looking bored. Krista’s hands rise to cover her mouth; her gaze is bright, astonished, wondering. “I don’t...is that really a... _unicorn?_ ”

Jean raises his head, stunned. _You can see me?_

Impossibly, Krista’s eyes grow even wider. “ _Jean?_ ”

Levi looks around at all the various expressions of confusion and growls, “The _fuck_ is going on here?” He jabs his blade in Bertolt’s direction, possibly at random. “You. What do you see?”

“I-I see a horse.” Bertolt swallows, sweats, stares at Jean like he’s about to panic. “Just...just a white horse.”

“A horse,” Reiner says softly, still sitting on the ground. His eyes are serious, thoughtful.

_They’re lying_ , Jean thinks suddenly, and has no idea why.

“Well, _I_ see a human being.” Levi seems mortally offended by the whole situation.

“I do too,” Armin says. “I wonder....” He glances up at Mikasa. “Mikasa?”

Mikasa is silent for a long moment. “Human,” she says at last, and doesn’t sound uncertain, exactly.

Sasha tilts her head consideringly. “That’s a pretty strange horse.”

“Different people see different things,” Hange murmurs. “Some kind of mind control effect? I’ve gotta talk to Erwin, he’ll want to hear about this....”

Jean is so dazed and bewildered that he only notices at the last second that Krista has sidled up close to him. He side-eyes her, and she starts, blushing, when she realizes that she has his attention. “Jean, I’m _so_ sorry, this is _really_ rude of me, but I just can’t help it.” Her flush deepens, but her eyes are alight with a suspicious trace of sparkle as she raises both hands, her fingers twitching. “Can I _pet_ you?”

Jean snorts in abject horror and dances aside—whirls to hide behind Marco, because Krista feels nice-but-wrong, too much not-That-Person, and he can’t even think about touching people, being touched by people, can’t look any of them in the face again ever. With a groan, he presses his nose against the back of Marco’s shoulder, closes his eyes, letting the rising and falling voices—Krista frantically apologizing, Ymir hauling her off to a more discreet distance, muttering something sarcastic and annoyed, Hange in quiet but intent exchange with someone, he’s not sure who—wash past him, meaningless. At this precise instant, nobody is trying to lock them up or experiment on them or actively kill them, and he knows they should probably do something before that changes again, but what, what, _what_....

“Jean,” Marco murmurs, distracting him from his tumbling thoughts. Marco’s hand lifts to brush through Jean’s mane, just behind his ear; he tilts his head, leaning it against the spire of Jean’s horn, and Jean shivers, overcome—he doesn’t know why. “Go.” The word is no louder than a breath. “You don’t have to stay for my sake. It’s all right. I’ll be okay.” Jean opens his eyes again, lifts his head a fraction, and Marco glances back at him, a smile tipping up the corners of his mouth, the expression tremulous but true. Marco’s eyes are as warm as summer nights and only a little sad as his lips move again, silently now—

_Run._

Jean looks away from that smile, up into the well of sky above the castle’s walls, a small square cut from blue infinity. Behind them, the gate still stands open; the wind mutters in the trees beyond. In this form he could escape pursuit, outrun any Titan, go anywhere, anywhere in the whole world. Instead he sighs and settles his chin onto Marco’s shoulder.

The choice is no choice at all. 

And he is unexpectedly, but somehow inevitably, content with that. With this slow-flowering warmth that threads between them, binding him to Marco, heart to heart, and soul to soul.

No peace, however perfect, lasts for long, though. 

“Why is there...is that actually a _unicorn_ with Marco?” Jean squints in annoyance toward that all-too-familiar voice. Eren has finally turned up from somewhere, trailed by a couple of tall soldiers who study the scene with puzzled interest. He puts back the hood of his cloak and stares. “Armin, I thought you said unicorns don’t really exist.”

“Ah, Eren—” Krista chirps, and Jean tenses, but it’s Mikasa who drops the explosive shell, because, he realizes, she’s secretly an amoral shit-stirrer, and how did he ever find her attractive? It certainly wasn’t for her personality.

“That’s Jean.”

Eren mouths Jean’s name, and his expression does some interesting gymnastics on its way from blankness through disbelief, don’t-tease-me anger, and the realization that nobody is actually joking until it finally settles on a deranged combination of shock and weird glee, and whatever he thinks is so funny about all this, Jean is _not_ having any of it. Stomping out from behind Marco, he marches across the courtyard, lifts up his horn and smacks Eren on the top of the head with it, making him yelp and clap both hands to the injured spot, then glares at him, eye to eye, from inches away. _One horse joke. One. And I will_ end you.

Eren’s mouth works, but instead of insults all he manages to get out eventually is, “How are you even _talking?_ ”

“The horse talks?” Connie says wonderingly, and Levi crashes his sword back into its sheath, throws up his hands in perfect disgust.

“I am _entirely_ done with this shit.” Jean shies as Levi stalks over to them and fists his hand in Eren’s cloak. “Hange, _this_ is my problem.” He stabs his finger at Jean. “ _That_ one is yours. I am literally going to wash my hands of all this, in case the insanity is contagious.” He drags Eren off by the cloak; Eren yips in surprise but stumbles after him without protest, looking back over his shoulder, wide-eyed with something that for a moment looks peculiarly like wonder. 

Jean sags in relief—then almost leaps straight up into the air as he realizes that Hange has popped up next to him and is peering at him from extremely close range, and people have _got_ to stop putting themselves in his personal space like that; it’s just not right. Flanks shivering, he backs away. He and Hange eye each other for a moment, him with suspicion and Hange with an intense, weirdly inscrutable interest, and then Hange’s mouth quivers suddenly; a hint of a tear wells up behind the glasses.

“WHYYYYY CAN I NOT SEE THE UNICORN?” Hange wails.

_Oh my god, that’s it. Nobody look at me; I’m changing back._

In the end, he has to slink back into the stable to change, because people won’t stop looking at him, the bastards, and apparently he has performance anxiety or something. He emerges just in time to hear Reiner snickeringly say to Connie, with a sly glance toward Marco, “Well, you know what they say about unicorns.”

“What?” Connie asks, rapt, and Jean practically flings himself across the yard at them.

“They say _absolutely nothing_. Reiner is just making shit up again.” Glaring, Jean grabs Marco by the shoulders and propels him away from this conversation, from which no good whatsoever can come. Reiner laughs, but Jean is saved from further indignities by somebody reasonably authoritative who arrives to chase the others back to whatever it is they should be doing, while a soldier assigned by Hange comes up to take charge of the two of them. 

Jean glances back as they walk away to see that Bertolt has corralled Reiner and the two of them are talking, their heads bent close together. 

And he wonders, with a tremor of disquiet, why their shadows are the color of blood.

 

Blessedly, it looks as if they’re not going to be housed in the dungeon after all, since Hange’s subordinate is leading them upstairs. Jean glances at Marco as they climb and notices he’s blushing; it must still be because of Reiner. Stupid Reiner and his stupid sense of so-called humor.

“I can’t believe he was going to bring that up,” Jean mutters. “No, wait, I totally can.”

“It’s...kind of a well-known part of the myth.” Marco shrugs awkwardly, ducking his head. “I mean, I guess I don’t care if Connie or whoever knows. I can’t be the only one out there.” He glances toward Jean, and his eyebrows lift, a tiny smile quirking his mouth. “Don’t you have to be one too, sort of by definition? Or does it not work like that?”

“Huh? What? Oh, the part about having to be a virgin?” Jean blinks somewhat hazily, then snorts with laughter. “ _That’s_ not so bad. I thought he was going to mention the head in the lap thing, and—” Wait, where is this going? “Which is not true, by the way! Totally not true. Not a thing that, that happens.” He thinks. It’s not like he’s ever done this before—whatever _this_ is, if there even _is_ a this, he doesn’t know. “Totally not relevant to...to anything. Oh god, why am I still talking?” Marco’s eyes are wide as he looks away, his blush has redoubled, and the soldier leading them hunches his shoulders as if he wishes he wasn’t hearing this conversation.

He shows them to the room they’ll be sharing, tells them his name is Moblit and to find him if they need anything, and then leaves to let them get some rest. Standard soldiers’ quarters, Jean figures, a step up from the trainee barracks: two beds, two trunks, two small nightstands with lamps, no linens yet but there’s a pillow and a folded blanket on each mattress. Jean sits on the edge of one of the beds, rubs his hands over his face, the adrenaline that’s carried him giving out at last, tumbling him headlong into utter exhaustion, and if he gets some sleep, maybe he’ll finally stop embarrassing himself. The mattress jolts slightly as Marco drops down to sit next to him, and that nearness should feel awkward, considering that he’s just been all kinds of weird and inappropriate, but it doesn’t. Not at all. It feels familiar, comfortable, this presence beside him, warm and close and all-encompassing, and as Marco’s shoulder brushes his, days’ worth of tension sigh out of him. 

Marco lets out a low huff of breath, sounding amused, and Jean murmurs in wordless question. 

“I was just thinking of the look on the captain’s face when you suddenly yelled out what you were.” Marco chuckles, then adds, that laughter lingering in his voice, teasing now, “Seriously, though—are unicorns _really_ supposed to swear like that?”

Jean gives this issue due and serious consideration. “Fuck it,” he pronounces at last, with dignity, and Marco laughs again, laughs outright. Marco leans into him and he leans back until their heads are resting together, and they stop like that, breathe the stillness, the hush. 

“Thank you,” Marco whispers, and Jean can feel the rise and fall of those words, the life that courses through him, thrumming to the beat of his heart.

“What was it like?” Jean murmurs, his eyes closed. “Being dead.”

“I...don’t know? I mean, I remember being afraid, and the pain—that was quick, though. Bad,” Marco’s voice catches, thickened, tight, “but quick. And then, there was just a...a stop. Like the space between breathing out and breathing in. That’s it. It wasn’t like anything, really.” Marco hesitates, and when he goes on the words are strangely soft. “It almost makes me wonder if something was holding me there. Waiting for you to find me.”

Jean _hmphs_ self-deprecatingly. “I’m not that lucky. Maybe you’re that good, though.” Somehow he’s slipped down so that his head is on Marco’s shoulder. Marco’s scent surrounds him, deep, sweet, clean even through the overlay of sweat and dirt from their flight to this place, and he thinks that it’s only right that somebody out there should make it a priority to keep Marco in this world.

Vaguely, through the drowsiness that’s stealing over him, he thinks he hears Marco’s quiet reply.

“Maybe you’re good. And I’m lucky.”

Jean barely realizes when he’s slowly tipped sideways to lie on the bed, his boots pulled off, the blanket drawn up over him. But when he wakes he’ll remember the gentle fingers brushing his cheek, the hand resting on his hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally the second scene was going to be a separate chapter, but it was so short I figured I'd better just stick it onto the end here, so the M-rated chapter is next.
> 
> PS: Reiner was actually going to say, "They're always horny!" (I love you, Reiner.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jean has a revelation, and Marco doesn't mind at all.

 

Jean starts awake with a grunt, taking alarm at the strange place, the stone walls cool and close around him, but in an instant he registers: sunlight, fresh air. Marco. Not the dungeon that’s filtering back into his waking memory but their room in the Survey Corps headquarters, and they are, if not quite free, _safe_ , at least for the moment. And still together. The daylight is just leaving the window, a bright slant of sun catching one side of the embrasure, and a cross draft idles through, drawn by the door that’s been left open onto the hallway. Across the room, Marco is sitting on the other bed, his legs stretched out, his back propped against the wall; he’s in uniform, surprisingly, seems absorbed in reading through a folder of papers, but he glances up and smiles as Jean shoves himself upright.

“You slept for a long time,” he says as Jean blearily tugs a hand through his hair. “Don’t worry about it; you deserved the rest! And nobody came looking for us anyway. I slept a little too, then ran around and did some things. Picked up new uniforms for us—yours is on the trunk there—the preliminary notes on the expedition—and there’s some lunch left,” he gestures toward one of the nightstands. “If you want it.”

Jean isn’t hungry. He feels vague and not quite there yet, oddly discomfited—he’s never been good straight out of bed. He doesn’t know where Marco gets the energy. With a groan, he pries himself off the mattress and onto his feet, scuffles across the room and rolls onto the other bed, lying with his back to Marco. Marco starts, then chuckles as Jean steals the pillow, tugging the end of it out from behind Marco and under his head.

Better. He doesn’t know why, but—

And then Marco touches him, runs fingers through his still-sleep-mussed hair, that contact easy and casual, but he arches into it, presses his shoulders back against Marco’s hip, and if he doesn’t know why, at least he knows—something. He flails his way back up to a sitting position, his heart beating fast.

“Sorry—” Marco blurts, drawing back, and Jean shakes his head.

“No, it’s—” He puts a hand to his face. He’s more awake now but still tangled in the threads of dreamlike memory, of how Marco had touched him like that, just like that, before he fell asleep. Of how he’d felt safe, at peace, complete.

_Completed._

Jean looks at Marco, and what he knows is—

Swinging slowly around, he brings his knee up onto the bed and leans forward over Marco. He’s peripherally aware of the shock on Marco’s face, but it’s only distantly relevant. It’s the heartbeat that matches his, the in-drawn breath, the invisible light that brightens as they draw nearer that matters.

He brushes his cheek across Marco’s. Nuzzles at the angle of his jaw, down the line of his throat. Lips delicately at the skin, and Marco’s hand curls behind his head, Marco gasps, presses his face into Jean’s hair, trembling. Jean’s teeth close onto Marco’s neck, a tiny nip, then another, another, almost as light as those first fluttering brushes of his lips, until Marco pulls him up, kisses his temple, keens his name into his ear. 

“ _Jean_.”

He freezes, the breath panting out of him suddenly, a low groan catching in the back of his throat. He’s never done anything like this before. It’s like some irresistible force is dragging him down and into Marco; for a moment, he doubts, and his elbows lock, his arms shake, trying to hold himself back, to keep himself from falling. And then Marco takes his face in both hands and turns it, is kissing him, kissing him—he’s shocked at first by the press of Marco’s mouth against his, the urgent, almost frantic movements, but only for an instant, and then the instinctual part of himself has identified this lip-mashing as affection and returns it, kisses back, awkward but eager, yearning for every kind of touch, and there is no more doubt, none at all, only an endlessly opening, outward-spiraling _yes_.

Because what he knows is—what he knows is that this is yet another way to be with Marco. And it doesn’t really change anything if this happens or not, they’re already sealed deep, so deep, but—he wants _all_ the ways.

Wants this. Wants it with every part of himself, human and not.

With a stuttering catch of breath, Marco separates them at last. His eyes are bright, his cheeks flushed, his mouth slightly open in an almost incredulous smile, his lips wet and faintly reddened from the kissing. “We should, uh, shut the door,” he murmurs.

“Mmnn. Yeah.” _Door._ The door swings closed with a low clunk and a click of the latch; Marco’s eyes widen, but Jean is more interested in sliding his hand behind Marco’s back, curling his arm around Marco’s waist and tugging. They wriggle down the bed until Marco is mostly horizontal, the pillow wedged in behind his head and shoulders, with Jean straddling him, bending to fumble at the buttons of his shirt. He gets the first one, the second—Marco’s hands are touching his face again, running up into his hair, stroking through it—Marco’s thumb brushes across his forehead, and Jean cries out, almost a scream, high and frantic, crumples helplessly onto Marco’s chest, because he was not expecting this, _this_ , how does one describe being touched to the heart of oneself, searing, terrifying, beyond exquisite, naked to the truth of the other and Marco is...so very beautiful. Jean moans, shaking.

“S-Sorry!” Marco sounds horrified. He squirms as if to sit up, and Jean presses his face into Marco’s shirt, kisses him through the cloth, open mouthed, because he doesn’t have the words right now to say _it’s all right, don’t stop, don’t_. He parts the shirt’s collar, pushes forward to nose at Marco’s throat, one hand dragging the uniform jacket half off Marco’s shoulder, the other arm cradling behind Marco’s head as he inhales Marco, the scent of his skin, his hair, his desire. Jean’s hips shift without volition, his crotch throbs hotly, and then he is grinding into Marco, slow at first but not for long because Marco moves, lifts to meet him, runs his hands down Jean’s sides to clutch at his seat, at the back of his thigh—pulls him in even closer, encouraging him with sharp tugs as he bucks more fiercely, as he rubs himself against the straining bulge in Marco’s pants with clumsy desperation.

“ _Shit_ ,” he mutters, dimly appalled at himself, “— _ah_ —I th-think I must be in heat or something.”

“Males don’t go into heat,” Marco whispers back, his voice shaky too, need mixed with laughter, but Jean doesn’t know what else would explain it, the sweltering waves that roll through him, raising the sweat on his skin, making his face burn, the shuddering hunger that won’t let him stop, that makes his body move like an animal, wild and shameless, and thank god Marco wants this, wants him, or he thinks he might die. Writhing, he pushes himself up on his arms so he can get better leverage, thrust more emphatically—then gasps, whines through his teeth as Marco’s hand slips in between them, presses against him, _squeezes_. And then Marco’s fingers are kneading at him, stroking him fervently, the firm hollow of Marco’s palm fits him so perfectly as it rubs over and against him, as he hitches to answer every movement— _quicker now, quicker, yes, this_ —until he rears up, clenching, _breaking_ , comes trembling and astonished, star-bright ecstasy pulsing through him from where he and Marco touch, and nothing is any purer than this. 

Pleasure-shocked, his heart races, sings like a struck and shivering wire, then gradually begins to slow. He’s so shaken, all his senses so strung out, that he just stares blankly for a while before he realizes that Marco’s arm is moving jerkily, that he has his hand thrust down into his own now-opened pants. Jean focuses—Marco’s eyes, fixed on Jean’s face, are dark and brilliant; he’s biting his lip, the skin white where his teeth dig in; his throat moves tensely as he swallows. And as Jean leans down, rests his fingertips against Marco’s wrist—just that, he isn’t even sure yet what he means to do—Marco arches, throws his head back, comes with a stifled cry, and Jean’s heart leaps again at the sight: Marco’s eyes fluttering shut, the tremors quivering through him, his face tightening and then easing as the release passes, leaving him spent.

Marco slumps, sighing, as the last of the tension in his body falls away. He pulls his hand out of his pants, then freezes, looks abashed and a little trapped as he realizes that Jean is still watching him. Jean can smell the sex on him, warm and luxuriant; he takes Marco’s hand, doesn’t even think, flicks out his tongue to lick up a single thick drop of Marco’s come, and somewhere in another life the Jean Kirstein that was is gagging at the very idea, but the taste of Marco unfurls in his mouth, the beat of Marco’s heart resonates inside his chest—he looks at Marco from under his lashes and sees Marco’s eyes wide with shock, his whole soul open and luminous there, and Jean finds absolutely nothing wrong with this at all.

The moment passes; then fatigue rolls over him again, though not nearly as crushingly as before. Shifting sideways with a faint groan, Jean settles himself in next to Marco, fitted between him and the wall, and after an instant’s hesitation, Marco moves his arm, curls it comfortably around Jean’s shoulders. Jean allows himself to be drawn nearer, his head tucked under Marco’s chin, Marco’s breath stirring through his hair. Marco sighs once more, a low _hmmm_ vibrating against him, and then presses his lips to the top of Jean’s head.

“I’ve wanted this for so long.” The words are muffled, barely audible, but they ring with a longing that would be painful if there wasn’t relief there as well. 

Jean hmphs and hooks a leg over Marco’s, linking them together. Forgotten expedition notes crunkle under Marco as his weight shifts. “Didn’t even get you out of your clothes,” he mutters.

“We can work on that part the next time.” Marco sounds serene, if a little breathless. After a short pause, he clears his throat. “Can I, uh—sorry, this is really awful—can I wipe my hand off on your shirt? You’re going to be changing later anyway, right?”

That _is_ a little gross, but Marco’s right, it’s stupid to get stains all over his new uniform, and they still don’t have linens on the beds. “Mm-hmm,” Jean mumbles, “whatever,” and suffers Marco to use him as a towel. “Ugh,” he adds, meaning not the new dampness on his shirttail but reality in general. “I should get up. I need a wash.”

“You probably have a while....” Marco trails off, the _until_ and whatever was going to follow it left unspoken, as Jean rolls up onto his knees and stretches long, cracking his joints. Raking his fingers into his hair, he wonders if Marco in his industriousness has managed to find a comb somewhere, because he’s definitely going to need one. Marco sits up too, more slowly, draws up his legs and hooks his arms around his knees. He’s watching Jean with a subdued intentness, and Jean lowers his hand, frowning a little as he returns that stare.

“What?”

Marco colors, drops his gaze at once. “I almost don’t know how to believe in this.” He’s smiling, and it’s joking, but there’s the barest hint of something tentative in his voice as he asks, “Are you really Jean Kirstein?”

Jean’s frown deepens slightly . Of course he is...isn’t he? Or was Jean Kirstein really just a human skin enclosing something—someone—else? He can feel that difference, that otherness, stronger, now that he’s let it free, than it has been for as long as he can remember. And he wonders, for a heart-stopping instant, if he’s lost something essential. If he’s given up the person that he was.

But—he is what he’s lived. Fifteen years of human life has to count for something, and he is certain, suddenly, with the same inner clarity that knew he could bring Marco back even from death, that he _can’t_ be anyone else. That even if he’s changed, if he changes, he’ll still somehow always be Jean. _Marco’s_ Jean.

“Yeah,” he says, and grins, a self-satisfied smirk that he knows Marco will recognize. “I really am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you do it with a unicorn, it totally doesn't count. Trufax.
> 
> I have a tumblr at <http://the-original-n-chan.tumblr.com/>, and I'm tracking the tag "fic: unicorne" (although tumblr's [lack of] messaging/reply system gives me fits, so if I don't respond to something, it's probably because I can't figure out how to :/ ).


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hange is Hange, and we learn some things.

Apparently Hange was supposed to be doing experiments with Eren, to learn more about his Titan powers, but for some reason this has been put off for the time being, so instead Hange is free to focus on Jean. Jean isn’t sure he cares for this at all, but orders are orders. So in between regular exercises, special formation practice, gear maintenance, new recruit training, and chores, he submits himself to Hange’s eccentric, frequently alarming attentions. Hange is intense, excitable, and sometimes hard to follow, but also, Jean has to admit, very, _very_ smart, and they quickly start learning some things.

The first thing they discover is that people who see him as a horse can’t hear him talk, and this includes Hange, which means that he needs an interpreter during sessions. Usually this is Marco or Krista, depending on who’s available; Jean doesn’t entirely trust Eren not to twist his words around, and the Special Operations Squad keeps him bundled out of sight most of the time anyway. (Jean blames Levi, who after a few days stops avoiding Project Unicorn like the plague but continues to regard it dubiously.)

They also find out that he can’t change when people are looking at him—again, excepting people who can see the unicorn. “Looking at” proves oddly flexible, though. For some people, an instant’s distraction is enough, while others require him to be entirely out of sight as he shifts; and he hasn’t yet managed to recreate the thing where he’s both changed and not changed at the same time. They spend a week on this subject alone while Hange parades what seems like half the Corps in front of him, singly and in groups, trying to work out all the variables, and by the end of each session he practically has vertigo from flipping back and forth so much. But he also finds himself growing more adept at slipping between moments of attention, even in front of more than one person. He doesn’t know _how_ he does it; it seems to be instinct and practice more than anything else. Hange accumulates stacks of notebooks documenting this whole proceeding.

His clothes go with him when he changes, for which he’s pathetically grateful. He’s able to take maneuver gear as well, which surprises him a little, but after all it’s so familiar to him after three years of training that it’s practically like a part of his body. He can shift anything that’s clothing, but not loads, not even something as small as a backpack, and not anything that’s living. Armin notes that this would still be a great way to smuggle small items, by carrying them in his pockets. Jean wonders why Armin thinks of these things. 

The issue that winds Hange up the most is why the majority of people can’t see Jean’s true form, and in corollary, why a few people can. Marco, Krista, and Eren suffer through interminable questioning on this, with no clear results. Jean thinks Marco is obvious—Marco is _his_ , or he’s Marco’s, or something like that—but he doesn’t know how to articulate it exactly, it’s very personal, and there are some things he really doesn’t want to share with Hange (and that’s not even getting into the sex part). Eren is obviously different from normal people, so that probably explains him. As for Krista, Jean has no idea. He hopes it isn’t some kind of maiden thing; that would be pretty damn mortifying, and Ymir would probably punch him in the face. Besides he’s already taken.

He does wonder about Bertolt and Reiner. He can’t shake the sense that they’d seen _something_ that one time, but what or why he couldn’t say. They haven’t come out and said anything about it; maybe they’re embarrassed—it could be the virgin thing, although he seriously doubts it—or hell, maybe they’re mythical creatures too and don’t want to blow their cover. (He wouldn’t blame them; just look at what he’s going through with Hange.) There hasn’t been a good opportunity to get them off to one side and bring it up; it probably requires some measure of tact and sensitivity anyway, which is not something he’s particularly good at, and especially not when he’s stressed out from being poked and prodded at _and_ , on top of everything else, facing the looming specter of that upcoming expedition outside the walls and the fifty percent death rate for new recruits, which by itself would be more than enough to freak out anybody. 

He is, to be honest, getting very frazzled. So when he finds himself at the study site early, before anyone else arrives, he takes advantage of it, shifts into his unicorn form and just—is. Being like this has become surprisingly comfortable—probably because it’s his true form, the one his soul was born to wear—and not just that, but it restores him. All his sensitivity is heightened, and while that can be a problem when he’s surrounded by people, when he’s by himself, like this, everything shines. The sun is out, the field behind the castle is green, wide, vibrant with a thousand different kinds of life beneath the cloud-strewn blue sky, and the beauty of it all flows about him, soothing him, stroking him like a certain freckled somebody’s gentle caresses. He’s at peace, content.

Until Hange comes striding across the field, jacketless, shirt sleeves rolled up, brandishing a wicked-looking knife.

“Jeaaaaaan! We haven’t done anything with _this_ yet!”

 _Whoa, whoa, whoa!_ Jean backs up, ears pinned, tail clamped down, hoping Hange will pick up on his body language before he has to start kicking or running away. He doesn’t know what Hange plans to do with _this_ , but whatever it is, he definitely hasn’t signed up for it. Moblit comes jogging up in Hange’s wake, what looks like a medical kit slung over his shoulder, which doesn’t reassure Jean in the slightest.

“Squad Leader, have you even sterilized the blade?” Moblit pants, sounding aggrieved, and Hange’s mad grin never falters.

“No, but it doesn’t matter. We’re simulating field conditions! Moblit, get out the notebook.”

 _Shit! Moblit—_ But Moblit is not in the unicorn-hearing club either, and has only a limited ability to restrain Hange anyway. Jean snorts in mixed irritation and alarm. He dances aside as Hange draws closer, ready to bolt.

And Hange stops abruptly before him, sets the tip of the blade against one bare forearm, and without hesitation draws a deep gash down through the flesh.

The reek of blood hits Jean instantly; his nostrils flare in repulsion as he recoils. Behind Hange, Moblit sucks in an appalled breath. Trembling a little, Hange drops the knife, and Moblit dives to retrieve it from the grass.

“So, Jean.” Hange holds out that arm toward him, smile strained now, whip-taut with pain. “Can you do something about this?”

The red stream runs thick and fast, too fast, dividing into separate rivulets as it spills toward the ground. The _wrongness_ of the wound tears at all Jean’s senses. He shifts his feet, shuddering his distress. Hange has to brace that arm with the other one to keep it extended, and Moblit moves forward. “Squad Leader—”

“N-Not yet.” It’s hard to tell behind the glasses, but Jean thinks Hange’s eyes are starting to look a little glazed. “Jean?”

He hesitates a moment more, but in the end he has no choice. Closing the distance between them, he braces himself, then lowers his horn to the wound.

It’s not so different from how it was with Marco. The light passes through him, not so vast, not for so long, but it feels the same: clean, delicate, pure. It threads through slashed vessels and nerves, flesh and skin—makes them right.

And at the same time, it’s completely different. Because _Hange_ is different. It’s not just that this isn’t Marco (although that’s a big difference, huge, and he wonders distantly if he could even do for someone else what he did for Marco, stay close enough, go deep enough to bring them back). Hange is dark and bright, keen and densely tangled, and in the ragged, mazelike depths that he doesn’t enter, doesn’t even touch, he can dimly perceive something raw and ugly. There’s a viciousness bound and buried there that doesn’t seem like Hange at all; but it is, in all its blood-soaked rage, and he thinks that Hange must legitimately be somewhat insane after all. 

The wound seals, smooth, scarless, and he steps back quickly.

Hange’s eyes rise to meet his. They’re wide, and a fading trace of light glimmers within them. “Oh,” Hange breathes, “ohhhhhh,” and he realizes it even before the smile breaks, wide and tremulous. “ _I can see you._ ”

He retreats another step, somewhat nervously. _You can?_

Hange makes a little hiccupping noise of astonishment and delight. “I can hear you too! Your voice sounds the same, but your mouth isn’t moving.” Jean shies as Hange swoops closer to stare into his face, almost eye to eye with him, voice rising in a curious hum. “And your eyes are the same! Same color...not like a human’s eyes, but the expression is still you.” Hange reaches out for him, and Jean jumps aside.

 _Don’t! Don’t touch me. It’s...not comfortable being touched like that._ They’ve been over this before, the fact that, with the exception of a very few people, being touched by human beings makes him prickle and twitch, but the excitement has obviously driven it right out of mind. A momentary blink of confusion, and then Hange wheels around, arms spread wide.

“Moblit! Did _you_ see?” Jean glances at the man; his eyes are wide and dazed, his mouth fallen open in shock. His expression holds a trace of the same illumination that touches Hange’s, mixed with bewilderment, disbelief—it’s obvious that he’s seen _something_ , and Hange literally squeaks with delight. “Healing _and_ seeing—two results with one experiment! Wooohooo! Am I good or what?” Leaping into the air, Hange spins around again, practically dancing with joy— _blood and innocence_ , Jean finds himself thinking, and he isn’t sure why, but it fits somehow, it seems to describe some part of the whirlwind of crazy that is Hange, at least as well as anything can.

Then Hange stops short with a piercing wail of despair. 

“Aaaah! Nooo! We forgot to measure the wound first! Moblit, where’s the knife?”

In near unison—

“No!”

_No!_

—and Jean wheels and canters off, head held high in annoyance, passing Krista as she comes straggling up late from kitchen duty, out of breath from her run.

 _Why_ is he surrounded with lunatics? Sometimes he just wants to kick them all in the head.

Of course, Hange would probably find a way to get more data from the experience. And therefore enjoy it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of an info dump in this chapter; sorry. The next one will have more going on.
> 
>  
> 
> Hange notes that Jean’s eyes are “the same” in his unicorn form.
> 
> In the manga, Armin says that Jean makes a decent double for Eren because he has a similar sociopathic look in his eyes.
> 
> A unicorn with the eyes of a sociopath.
> 
> Help.
> 
>  
> 
> RE: Hange’s experiments on Eren being put off: this may just be an artifact of the manga’s pacing, but it does seem like nothing happens experiment-wise for the month of preparation before the expedition. It really only seems to pick up again once the kids are out at the hunting lodge, after the rescue mission. Maybe it’s because there were too many people at the Survey Corps headquarters at that point, and there were concerns about either collateral damage or information leaking to outsiders?
> 
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> 
> I was attempting to track the tumblr tag "fic: unicorne" but not even all of my own posts are showing up on it, and I can't figure out why. Yet another instance of wanting to kick tumblr. So yeah, I have no idea if I'll see anyone else's posts.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Marco tries to distract Jean from his worries, and succeeds. (Kind of.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven’t read the side story “[Give and Take](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1951980)” (and don’t want to), the one thing you need to know from that story in order to get this chapter is that Jean is actually intersex (and extremely sensitive about it), but he has the ability to appear as straight-up male and has been doing so since slightly before joining the military. I’ve updated the tags on this fic to take that into account. Note that although Jean’s physical sex is ambiguous, he considers his gender to be unquestionably male, so I’m retaining the M/M tag.

Jean encounters Eren at the entrance to the dining room; he and Marco have just finished returning their dishes to the kitchen and are heading out, while Eren is arriving late, Special Ops shadow in tow. Eren is looking pissy for some reason, but a grin crawls across his face when he sees Jean. “ _Hey_ , stallion.”

Jean rolls his eyes. “Dry up, Yeager,” he mutters, and Eren’s smirk widens.

“I was talking to Marco,” he says, practically _purrs_ , and Jean almost chokes on his fury.

“ _F-Fuck you_ , you son of a bitch! No, no, wait, you know what— _you’re_ the bitch!” He’s crowding up in Eren’s space, fingers stabbing at Eren’s chest, spit probably flying—Eren’s eyes are wide with shock but he can see the storm starting to gather in them and he frankly doesn’t care. “ _Ha!_ And I’m gonna—” He doesn’t actually know what he’s going to do, what follows from Eren being the bitchiest bitch that ever bitched, something suitably wrathful and violent anyway, but before inspiration can strike or his fists can just let fly, a pair of arms—Marco’s—hook around him and pull him away.

“Jean, you’re— _unf_ —blocking the doorway,” Marco says, and all Jean can do is sputter in frustrated rage. 

Eren takes a step forward, lips curling back in a snarl, and the veteran behind him grabs his arm. “Shut it down, you two.” The man’s voice isn’t exactly a growl, but it is a warning, and after a moment Eren submits and slinks away into the dining room with a last sullen glance over his shoulder, while Marco hauls Jean expeditiously off in the other direction.

A few strides down the corridor, Jean shrugs out of Marco’s grip and stomps ahead—through the main hall and outside, to one of the courtyard nooks near the stable. He throws himself down to sit on a bench against the wall, at the edge of a sharp slant of shadow, and glowers at where a torn-up weed is already trying to resprout through the stones. He’s fighting to hold onto that incandescent blaze of fury, but the shakes are already starting: the fear, the overpowering shame that steals his breath, that condenses the anger into a dull, hot ache, a lump of heated lead weighing in the pit of his stomach.

Marco catches up with him then—gives him a few moments, and when Jean doesn’t speak, he sighs.

“He doesn’t know about anything.” There’s concern in Marco’s voice, and also a note of exasperation. “And if you freak out like that, it’s only going to make people wonder why you’re so upset.”

Sometimes he truly hates it when Marco is so reasonable. He wants to snap back, but his throat is tight; he doesn’t trust his voice. And what’s he going to say, anyway? It’s true: Eren hit his trigger pretty much at random, and he lost his mind.

Eren can’t possibly know his secret; nobody knows, only Marco. Jean fidgets on the bench, focuses on the awareness of his body, this human body, tests the form of his seeming. Normal, human. Male. Okay. He sighs out a breath and relaxes marginally.

He _might_ suspect that Jean and Marco are a thing. They’re always everywhere together, as much as their Corps-imposed schedules allow, but Jean doesn’t think they’ve done anything obvious, anything, say, affectionate, or at least not excessively so. He is not at all ashamed of his feelings for Marco, he just doesn’t want people to start treating them weird or making fun of them; and he’s _not_ bothered by Marco fucking him, he honestly isn’t, it’s just, it’s _humiliating_ to think of Eren thinking of him as Marco’s—

“Jean, stop obsessing.” Marco’s knuckles brush his shoulder. “Come on, I’ve got something to take your mind off it.”

“I’m not in the mood,” Jean grumps, and when Marco chuckles he glares down at the uneven cobblestones, their cracks and hollows black pits in the torchlight.

“I actually wasn’t thinking about that. Not that it’s a _bad_ idea, but it’s not exactly a change of, um, subject.” Jean snorts and looks sidelong up at Marco. It’s hard to tell in this light if Marco is blushing, but he’s certainly still amused. Jean is wavering between getting testy about it or just surrendering and giving up on his sulk (holding onto it is starting to feel ridiculously bull-headed anyway, especially while Marco is being all Marco-like at him) when Marco adds casually, “What I was going to say is: nighttime maneuver gear practice.”

“Hah?” Jean blinks, his eyes widening as he draws in a startled breath. “ _Shit_ , Marco, that’s dangerous.” Not that that’s anything new to them, of course—they’d done night practice and other equally hazardous things during training camp, but he’s a little surprised that Marco would suggest something like that.

“Well, yeah. Which means you’ll have to keep your mind focused on what you’re doing, right?” Marco taps a finger against his own temple, his smile fond and knowing, but at the same time there’s a trace of challenge in it, almost a dare, and Jean marvels yet again at how Marco always knows exactly what he needs, even when he doesn’t know it himself. “I heard some of the other soldiers talking about it,” Marco goes on with a shrug, “and I thought it sounded kind of risky, running the course alone at night, but it seemed like they had a lot of fun. So maybe we could try it.”

“Oh _hell_ yes.” Clapping his hands on his knees, Jean shoves himself to his feet, unable to suppress a somewhat feral grin. “I could definitely go for killing some Titans right about now.”

 

They check out their maneuver gear from a cranky quartermaster’s assistant, along with a lantern to get them to the start of the course (and to mark it so they don’t get completely lost in the dark woods) and a couple of flare guns with flashbomb cartridges, in case of emergencies. The moon is half full but bright, sending broad, ghostly white beams cutting through the leafy canopy, islands of light among the trunks and tangled branches. Marco is nevertheless peering anxiously into the trees as Jean hangs the lantern on its post. “I’m starting to wonder if this was really such a good idea,” he mutters.

“Come on, Marco, it’s fine! It’s not like we haven’t done this before. Remember, just go easy and give yourself some extra lead time so you can see what’s coming up ahead.” Jean shoots his grapples high into the nearest large tree and reels himself up, pauses on a branch to give his eyes time to adjust, now that he’s outside the lantern’s range. He hears the double thunk and hiss as Marco follows, turns to spot him hanging from a neighboring tree, feet braced against the trunk. Marco nods to him, face washed pale by the moonlight, raises a hand to signal _You first_. Turning back, Jean grins fiercely as he leaps and pulls his triggers. “ _Ha!_ Let’s fly!”

Of course, this isn’t the trainee camp, and the woods are different, more overgrown, the same neglect that’s left the old castle kind of a dump. They’ve run this course in the daytime, so it isn’t entirely new to them, but it does look strange and unfamiliar at night. Jean has to focus all his attention to find the gaps between the trees, to avoid the branches that whip out of the shadows as he flashes by, but it’s exhilarating, the wind, the speed, the rush of instinct that guides him, all the reflexes and skill ingrained by training rolled into a grace that isn’t effortless but that instead stretches him to the limit, that lets him revel in his own strength, in the freedom that it brings. He’s generally aware of where Marco is, taking a line somewhere lower and to the right, keeping a careful distance so they don’t cross their wires. Other than that, there’s just movement and the night; no distractions, no other concerns.

Suddenly he spots the humped shadow up ahead, motionless with no one to give it fake life—less of a challenge, but accurate enough, considering that Titans go dormant at night. He cuts hard around a big tree to come at it from behind, arcs high, and drops. His blades hit the padding at the nape of the neck with satisfying force; he rolls past, then circles sharply back to check the depth and placement of his cuts. “Kill!” he yells, and how much better this is with no speedy slackers diving in to steal his targets.

Eagerly he swings high again, scans the forest ahead. They’ve reached the gauntlet now; he knows there will be more mock Titans nearby. His eyes pick out the likeliest ambush points and—yes, there and there. “Marco! Two just ahead! You take the one on the right.”

Marco’s voice comes from somewhere behind him, slightly breathless. “Where? I don’t see—”

“Just follow me!” Jean launches himself, taking the straight line between the two Titans. As he nears them, he drops lower, to just above their five-meter height, slews between some clumps of understory trees, lines himself up for his approach—and behind him there’s a sudden yelp and a cannonade of crunching and cracking.

“Marco?” He hears Marco gasp out another sharp cry—there’s a last loud snap, a thud, and the sound of the other set of maneuver gear cuts out. “ _Marco!_ ”

“I-I’m all right!” Marco’s voice is thin and quavery and doesn’t sound all right at all. Jean pulls a vertical loop around the nearest large branch and flings himself back the way he’d come.

“Where are you?” The forest is lit up white, the trees stand out in sharp relief, but he doesn’t see movement anywhere. “ _Marco!_ ”

“Here! I’m just—” Marco is behind him now—he’s overshot. As Jean cuts back again, he hears the _chnk_ of a grapple releasing, the hiss-whirr of a retracting cable—scuffling and snapping and another whoop of alarm before he spots Marco falling out of one of the tangles of smaller trees that Jean had dodged past earlier. Marco hits the ground with an _oof_ and then lies there for a moment before dragging himself up to a sitting position, his back propped against the nearest trunk.

Jean flings himself earthward, stumbles his landing and doesn’t care, drops to his knees next to Marco. Marco is staring at him, wide-eyed, looking almost stunned. “Marco, are you okay? Are you hurt? What—”

Marco starts, seeming to come back to himself. With a shaky laugh, he says, “I-It—no, I’m fine. I was trying to catch up to you, and the trees were just suddenly there.” Jean leans in close to him, touching his arm, his shoulder, trying to sense if Marco has any serious injuries, and Marco deflects his hands gently. “I’m not hurt. It’s just...embarrassing.”

It’s true; Marco seems to be okay, just a little scraped up and shaken, possibly bruised. Slumping in relief, Jean sits back, rubs a hand over his face. “Shit. This really was a bad idea,” he mutters.

“Well, thanks.” Marco’s voice is self-deprecating, with a fine edge of snark. “Considering it was _my_ idea.”

“N-No! I mean, you were second-guessing it, and you were right. It was really reckless, doing this in the dark.” Jean sighs. It doesn’t feel like he’s helping matters any. “And I was taking it way too fast. Sorry.”

“Mmph.” Jean thinks that’s acceptance, mixed with a touch of resignation. Marco’s always been frank about his own limitations; he’s perfectly competent with the maneuver gear, but not the quickest or most agile, and maybe he thinks he should’ve known better than to try to keep up with Jean. It makes Jean’s spirits sink even lower. Sure, he’s justifiably proud of his skills, but he doesn’t want to make Marco feel bad. Echoing Jean’s sigh, Marco tilts his head back against the tree trunk. “Maybe we should’ve gone with the sex after all,” he murmurs.

Jean slants a look at Marco, not sure how to read that comment. He notes the curve of a small, rueful smile, though, and his heart lifts a little, the ache turning into a flutter, a tiny curl of hopefulness and heat. He decides to take a chance. 

“Well...it _is_ really private out here,” he says, trying for nonchalantly suggestive. Marco just stares for a second, during which Jean wonders if he should start looking for a nice, big rock to hide under, and then that smile reappears, widens, warm with amusement, affection, even desire, and as Jean melts before it, he feels forgiven for all the night’s foolishness.

“Yeah,” Marco murmurs. “It is.” And as Jean shifts closer, one hand cupping Marco’s hip as he bends forward, all his attention focusing onto the quirk of Marco’s lips, the line of his jaw, the shadow where it meets his throat, Marco adds, still smiling, “You might want to dim the light a little, though. Just in case someone sees it and wonders what it is.” Jean pulls back, baffled, and Marco gives him a laughing, incredulous look. “Jean, do you honestly not realize that you’re _glowing?_ ”

“Huh?” Jean glances down at his hands, then around himself, and discovers he’s giving off an aura of light, clear white with an overtone of gold, warmer and far more brilliant than the moon’s thin, wispy rays. The woods around them are bright—is that all coming from him? He concentrates, not at all sure what he’s doing, tries closing down on—whatever—and the light whiffs out abruptly, leaving them in the blackness of dense shade.

“Oops,” Marco says. “That’s...really dark.”

“Fussy, fussy,” Jean grumbles as he starts to lean in again, grateful that the night is hiding his disgruntled flush. All these weird powers; what the hell. Marco gropes for him awkwardly, maybe even a bit anxiously, nearly puts a thumb in his eye, and Jean grabs that hand in self defense. He can generally make out Marco’s form and the shapes of things around them, subtle shifts of more and less deep shadows, but Marco seems hardly able to see him at all. His night vision must be better than Marco’s. 

No wonder he ran Marco into a tree.

He _has_ to do better than this. The thought wrenches at him, hurts like a kick to the chest. He can’t be so careless of Marco. Marco, who’s always taking care of him, looking out for him, saving him again and again from his own headstrong stupidity. And how does he pay Marco back?

Like this.

Marco deserves so much better.

Still holding Marco’s hand, Jean cautiously reaches inward, calls forth the slightest glimmer of brightness, just enough to illumine the two of them. The play of light shimmers in Marco’s startled eyes, traces highlights on his dark hair. Leaning closer, Jean curves his other hand against Marco’s face, brushes his thumb in a feather-light arc, back and forth along Marco’s cheekbone. 

“Is this all right?” he asks, meaning so many things: the light, the shivery intimacy of the moment, the way he wants to kiss Marco, press into him, taste his warmth, his breath, the slow and tender caress that says, far better than he’ll ever manage in words, just how very precious Marco is to him.

And after a moment, Marco smiles and closes his eyes, inclining his head against Jean’s hand.

 

In the end there’s only making out and some quick but passionate groping, because maneuver gear straps are the biggest pain in the ass ever. Jean’s still stupidly happy, though. As they walk back into the quartermaster’s office, he feel a thousand times lighter, even before he dumps the gear onto the counter.

The assistant is not nearly so cheerful.

“Look at the state of those uniforms,” she growls. “What a disgrace.” With a start, Jean realizes that there’s dirt and leaf mold ground into the knees of his pants. Marco has twigs and bark in his hair; his shirt is unevenly buttoned, and his collar is rumpled up on one side. Jean’s face heats; he clenches his fists and stifles the anxious urge to check the damage to Marco’s backside. Thank god for the leather apron; it almost makes up for the idiocy of having white uniform pants. The woman is going on with sour asperity, “I don’t know why you people have to waste my time and haul our _very expensive_ equipment out into the woods at night when all you’re going to do is roll around on the ground.”

“N-No, that’s not—!” Marco is blushing even more fiercely than Jean is as he chokes off his protest, tries to turn it into something more casual and less frantic. “I mean, I, uh, fell out of a tree.” Laughing awkwardly, he rubs at the back of his neck.

“Of _course_ you did.” Rolling her eyes, the woman snorts disdainfully. “ ‘Night-time maneuver gear practice,’ ” she mutters under her breath. “When are people going to come up with something new and original?” 

“No, really! I—” Marco stutters, trying to come up with some way to convince the woman of their innocence, but Jean, his heart already sunk into his boots, knows there’s no point. She’s not going to believe a single word they say.

It’s clear now exactly what kind of “fun” the other soldiers were having.

“—that is, um—”

“ _Marco._ ” Catching Marco by the shoulders, Jean turns him bodily toward the door, because the only they can do now is escape with what’s left of their dignity. “Never mind. Just—walk away.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMAKE:  
> Reiner: So how was your nighttime manuever gear practice?  
> Jean: _HOW DO YOU KNOW._
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> I know that Jean and Eren aren’t quite so violently antagonistic in canon at this point, but Jean is under undue stress and, as noted, Eren hit him right on a particularly sore spot.


End file.
